Red Shadow
by Miss Peg
Summary: The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.
1. Chapter 1

**Red Shadow**

**Author**: miss_peg

**Artist**: king_stitch (on livejournal)

**Word Count: **6938

**Rating:** T (violence)

**Summary: **The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.

**Disclaimer:** The Mentalist doesn't belong to me, none of these characters are mine, I just play with them in a sandbox in my mind.

**Notes:** SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 FINALE. I'm not sure what I think of this story, I like the idea but I'm less sure about the tense/person I've written it in. All the same, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to king_stitch for the awesome art which inspired this work (link will soon be available in my profile).

Blood seeped across the blanket, covering the flowery pattern in a deep red. The woman groaned as life ebbed away from her, the final punishment. He walked around the bed, watching her movements slow and her breath become shallow. The best bit was the end, when they crossed the line between life and death, when everything he'd worked so hard to achieve had been completed and another life had been taken.

'Momma?'

The world ground to a halt, the woman's body still slipping away but he didn't notice as he glanced across the room at the small boy with blond hair. His thumb rested in his mouth, sucking hard on the comfort of his own skin. Perfect golden blond hair and the brightest eyes. He was perfect, the perfect child.

He was also the only witness to his crime. Usually it was the husband who came home, only to be slaughtered in the same way as his wife. Had he been any older, then perhaps John would have done to the boy what he had done to so many others before him. Something stopped him though, that worrisome glance, the watery tears filling his eyes and the thumb wobbling about as he sucked harder.

'It's okay,' he soothed, reaching out an arm to the little boy. He frowned, looking more scared than comforted. 'I'm your Mommy's friend; she wanted me to ask you to help me with something.'

He looked doubtful and as he glanced across at the woman, lay butchered on the bed, his lip began to quiver.

'She's sleeping right now, we're playing a game and she's winning. Do you want to win too?'

He glanced back to his mother, his eyes wide, his thumb still wobbling.

'What's your name?'

'Pattick,' he mumbled, barely removing his hand as he spoke. John took a step forward, holding out his gloved hand towards the boy.

'Hello Patrick, nice to finally meet you. Your Mommy has told me so much about you.'

He stared as John shook the little boy's hand, holding it between them with a grin plastered across his face. It took only a minute for the boy's wall to lower and he smiled back, still wary, but mostly accepting.

'Me win?' he asked.

'That's right, you can help me,' John said, scooping the boy up and carrying him across the room. He placed him on the bed beside his mother. 'Are you any good at painting Patrick?'

He shook his head, his blond hair flying out at all angles. John chuckled and reached for Patrick's hand.

'How about I do the painting, but we use your hands? I'll just show you where to move them?' He nodded. 'Great.'

On the outside he knew that what he was about to do seemed perverse, obscene, monstrous and for the most part he wondered if the assumption was realistic. He was about to draw a smiley face with the boy's hand, soaked in his mother's blood. How much more deranged can one person get? He wasn't crazy though, merely clever. Nobody would suspect that he had had anything to do with the crime if a three year old child was found covered in his mother's blood, the only witness to a crime that he was too young to really, truly remember.

'One day, my boy,' said John, sitting the boy down on the floor, blood covering his overalls. 'We will meet again. It probably won't be for a long time, but don't worry, I'll always be there, watching you.'

Patrick's bottom lip wavered and John shook his head, barely phased at the child's need to cry.

'I'll be there to look after you, to watch over you, because that's what your Mommy wants me to do.'

When Patrick Jane was six years old he visited Kindergarten, a small school on the outskirts of the city where his father had parked their home for the next few weeks. Apparently they were staying for just a month, so that Patrick could be given a glimpse of a normal childhood before the carnival circuit started up and his life on the road became the norm. Alex Jane sat out front with a cigar resting between his lips and a bottle of beer in his hand. As far as he was concerned, his son was safe, curled up in bed in the van. Of course, he didn't see the man walking across the lot, his red hair cut short and his shoes so smooth that he barely left a trail. The man was preoccupied, so much so that John could sneak past him with ease. He carefully unlatched the front door of the van and tiptoed inside. In the small bedroom at the back, he found the little boy lay on his side, looking at a comic book. John smiled at him, his hair had been cut shorter, more manageable, but he still appeared the bright child he had always been.

'Hello Patrick, remember me?'

The little boy glanced up, looking about ready to scream when John lunged forwards and clamped a hand around his mouth. He would not be discovered this way.

'I'm a friend of your Mommy's, Patrick, don't you remember me?'

He shook his head, fear etched in his face as tears strolled down his cheeks.

'It's okay, sweet boy, I'm here, daddy's here.'

'My daddy is outside.'

'I know, I know he is.'

'Who are you?'

'I told you, Patrick. I'm a friend of your mother's.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Red Shadow**

**Author**: miss_peg

**Artist**: king_stitch (on livejournal)

**Word Count: **6938

**Rating:** T (violence)

**Summary: **The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.

**Disclaimer:** The Mentalist doesn't belong to me, none of these characters are mine, I just play with them in a sandbox in my mind.

**Notes:** SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 FINALE. I'm not sure what I think of this story, I like the idea but I'm less sure about the tense/person I've written it in. All the same, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to king_stitch for the awesome art which inspired this work (link will soon be available in my profile).

Thanks to tromana, Lothlorien Aeterna, Iloveplotbunnies and SteeleSimz for their reviews.

**Part Two**

Did others know what it was like to watch a child grow up without his father? To be on the outside of his life, waiting for the moment when things would change? John didn't know if he'd ever get the chance to step into the light, to reveal who he was. He wanted to be there, though, for every moment. To sit Patrick on his lap and tell him stories of his childhood, of the wars his father had fought and of the things he'd seen or the women he'd dated; the rite of passage, as a father, to pass down knowledge and understanding through mechanical tasks and basketball.

Patrick couldn't ever know, he knew that deep down. For he was the saviour and John was the devil, two ends of the same pole. His own son was the person born to persecute him. Related by their connection and separated for eternity. They would always be in each other's presence, John promised that much, but that didn't mean they would truly know who the other was.

The pregnancy wasn't kept a secret, he knew from the beginning. When she discovered that she was carrying his child, she went to him. But one thing was clear, he wasn't the father. Biologically, maybe, but not physically. He would never be there on parent's day at school, he wouldn't teach the child to play baseball or to dance badly; he would never give his child a condom in an embarrassing conversation about safe sex. He would always be a stranger to him, as much of a stranger as the man on the television who read the news.

It wasn't an insult; in fact he found it rather flattering. After all, the man who read the news was rather dashing. That was another reason he was to be a stranger, or so she said. John's taste in humans was rather obscene, according to her. She didn't want to expose her child to a man who dared look at other men in the same way he also looked at women. Not her child. It didn't matter that he was also John's, a boy made up of both of their genes, fused together to form the little boy growing inside of her.

In the weeks and months that followed, he thought of him often. Regardless of how little contact he was going to have with his son, John still considered his role important. She'd cut him off, sent him packing and though he did as he was told, he stayed close by. What she didn't realise was how good he was at watching people, a ghost in the background of the lives of those he cared about. It was how he grew up, never speaking, never being spoken to, merely watching those he loved and responding to the odd beating. He loved and hated them, and the situation, in the same breath. The negative influences damaged him in more ways than he cared to imagine.

A world he didn't want to create for his child, a life where he was treated differently because of something that made him an individual. No, his son would have it better than he ever did.

The God fearing, Bible bashing lunatics that brought him into the world must have seen it early on, the gay gene they called it, even as he grew into a man and discovered exactly who he was. They tried to send him away, successfully after several fights and the occasional run away attempt. They hoped, wrongly so, that a Pastor could rid him of the demons fighting with his conscience. What they didn't realise was that the only demons in his life, were the people who gave themselves the title of his parents.

The baby was born on the 30th July, a healthy baby boy, six pounds three ounces, with a full head of dark hair. He lost it within days. Nobody knew that John had been there when he was born. Nobody expected him to be at the hospital, watching, waiting for the moment when his son arrived into the world. It helped that John had a friend working as a cleaner at the hospital; he called in some favours and took a basic job for a couple of weeks. It gave him the proximity he needed to watch his son in the hours after his birth. Nobody suspected the cleaner sweeping the halls when a child came, all eyes on his beautiful bright blue eyes. The essence of perfection and for the first time in John's life, he was proud of everything he'd ever achieved. It was there, in a little crib at the hospital, in that little boy.

Within days his 'father' was carrying him out of the hospital spouting the name Paddy. A typical Irish nickname, one that John loathed with every fibre of his being. His son would never be Paddy.

Nobody cared to ask him what he thought of the name because as far as they were concerned, he didn't exist.

But he did exist. He had always existed and he always would. They just didn't see him, standing on the edge. Either that or they chose not to notice. Who wanted to believe that there was a man watching their son, waiting for the moment when he could join the party?

They took Patrick home on a Wednesday; John remembered it well because it was the day the carnival left town. Patrick's tiny body resting peacefully in his mother's arms. Sleeping; pacified by the tip of her pinky finger and her bulging nipples. The man by her side, the so called father, was none the wiser. John's frustration boiled up like a storm trapped inside the head of a needle, no outlet for the raging danger building quickly.

He took another cleaning job at City Hall, made sure to be there on the day that the baby was registered; Patrick Alexander Jane. Son of Alexander Jane and his wife, Mairead Jane nee Flynn.

Lies. It was all lies and John wanted nothing more than to shout and scream the building down until the forms were changed and his name was submitted as the father.

From that day on he promised that he would seek revenge. His role in that boy's life would not be as a stranger, but a friend. He would know who John was, whether he liked it or not. He would not share him with anyone.

That was where the plans began to form, John's mind worked overtime as he considered his options. He could murder them both in their sleep. But what would become of the boy? He had no experience of looking after a child, let alone an infant. Perhaps he could wait a while. It didn't have to be forever, just a few years until he was old enough to stand up and use the toilet.

x

So he watched him, sitting on the edge of his life, carefully analysing every person that ever crossed his path. When he attended a day school for toddlers, John found himself working again as a cleaner, anything to get access to the boy. His boy.

'Hello there, Patrick.'

He stared up with sparkling blue eyes and a large grin, several teeth haphazardly placed around his mouth. He said hello, something that sounded more like ayo than a word that John recognised.

It didn't matter that Patrick didn't know who he was; it wouldn't be long before he did. John watched him for a few weeks, listened to him learn numbers and how to count on his hands. He watched him sing songs with the other children and listen patiently to stories of dragons and knights. He wondered if Patrick would ever see him as the knight that he was, the person who would save him from the life he was never meant to lead.

On the evening of his third birthday, John watched from the window, darkness cloaking the street as his supposed parents wished him a happy birthday and gave him candles to blow out.

Patrick knew who he was now, so much so that when they put him to bed and turned out his light, John climbed through his bedroom window and hugged him tightly.

'Happy Birthday, Patrick.'

What the little boy didn't know was that his birthday present would be his worst nightmare and by the morning he would be alone in the world, except for him. His father, his real father, he would be there to pick up the pieces and hold him whilst he cried.

The fear of fatherhood was gone, John was poised, ready to take him in his arms when he fell over or soothed his head, when he cried in pain. He would be the only parent Patrick ever needed and one day, he would see that.

For now he would have to withstand the horror that he was about to face.

John kissed his little boy goodnight, tiptoed out of the bedroom and through the van towards the place where Alex and Mairead slept. They were busy talking, Alex apologised for something he had done earlier that day; John hid in the bathroom until Alex left their home. The boy was asleep; he made sure of that before he left him, anything to keep him safe.

Then without so much as a thought, he entered Mairead's room and before she could scream, he pulled a blade across her neck, hacking her up until she lay dying in a pool of her own blood. The side of John's mouth curled at the corners as she took her final breath, a look of recognition and intense fear spread across her frozen features.

'Maybe you shouldn't have taken him from me,' he said, kissing her on the lips, something that he'd wanted to do for years. Despite hating what she had done, John would always love her dearly. After all, she brought their child into existence. He didn't really want to have to kill her; he simply had little choice in the matter.

When he pulled away he noticed Patrick stood in the doorway behind him, his eyes wide and his face ashen. He looked about ready to scream. The knife shook in John's gloved hand and there was little else he could do but beg the child to leave. The only other option was to kill him but he couldn't do that. Not when all of this was for him. John couldn't watch the life dissipate from his little face. A face so full of hope and possibility.

'She's sleeping right now, we're playing a game and she's winning. Do you want to win too?'

He looked worried and yet when John reached out his arms, Patrick rushed into them, desperate to feel the love and comfort that only a parent could bring.

On the outside he knew that what he was about to do seemed perverse, obscene, monstrous and for the most part he wondered if the assumption was realistic. He was about to draw a smiley face with the boy's hand, soaked in his mother's blood. How much more deranged can one person get? He wasn't crazy though, merely clever. Nobody would suspect that he had had anything to do with the crime if a three year old child was found covered in his mother's blood, the only witness to a crime that he was too young to really, truly remember.


	3. Chapter 3

**Red Shadow**

**Author**: miss_peg

**Artist**: king_stitch (on livejournal)

**Word Count: **6938

**Rating:** T (violence)

**Summary: **The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.

**Disclaimer:** The Mentalist doesn't belong to me, none of these characters are mine, I just play with them in a sandbox in my mind.

**Notes:** SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 FINALE. I'm not sure what I think of this story, I like the idea but I'm less sure about the tense/person I've written it in. All the same, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to king_stitch for the awesome art which inspired this work (link will soon be available in my profile).

Thanks to tromana, crazyanalyst and emJeanie for their reviews.

**Part Three**

The child grew from a small boy caked in blood to a dashing young man, standing up on stage, fooling men and women out of their hard earned money. He was something to be proud of, a true father's son, though he would never know just how much. He seemed to loathe the life that had been thrust upon him and that was something John wished he had changed all those years before. He didn't want Patrick to grow up in the same stifling environment that he had, only the tipping of the scales in John's direction had merely caused more problems than he had solved.

He was too busy living his life to know everything that went on, carrying out his chores as any human would. Even if the vast majority of them involved persuading people to do his bidding and the not so random act of murder. He didn't use the face again. The risk was too high and he feared the repercussions if Patrick realised what had happened when he was a small child.

The carnival circuit was harder to hide within, he couldn't be a cleaner or a handyman, he couldn't worm his way into a role that nobody would see him in. Everyone knew everyone and it was for that reason that he followed the circuit around, a visitor that loved the carnival so much that he visited them in every town and city. Nobody questioned his existence, he was a regular, someone that they saw at every stop in their journey and nobody questioned him for it. The years he spent ambling along a foot behind Patrick and his life, John knew that the carnie folk saw him as a spectator, someone who longed the freedom and independence that the carnival life brought. Sometimes they asked him which act he'd like to be part of if he gave up his life and joined them, he never had an answer except to say that he wanted to be part of the Jane family's act. That wasn't unusual, John had quickly learnt, his son was something of a marvel and the world and his dog wanted a part of it.

John grew tiresome of the carnival circuit long before Patrick, despite the hatred the boy had of his 'father' and the life he was forced to lead, he'd found love with a girl. A girl who loved him just as much. Having little love and adoration in his life, John sought comfort in the fact that Patrick had found himself a happy relationship. He, on the other hand, was as dysfunctional as they came.

x

When Patrick left the circuit he lived in motel room after motel room, with Angela by his side and the occasional rich lady to con out of thousands of dollars. It was a proud day when Patrick gave up his carnival life and John was thankful that he no longer needed an excuse to visit his son.

It took them a few months to settle down, to find their place in the world. They travelled across country with John on their tail, sleeping in neighbouring motel rooms, or the parking lot, so that he would always know when Patrick was on the move. Finally they settled upon California; Hollywood, the city where dreams come true.

They set up home in a suburb of Los Angeles, Angela found a job in a small bakery that sold cupcakes and bagels. Patrick went out to work every day, scouring estate sales and antique fairs for vulnerable relatives. He was almost always successful, usually latching onto the little old lady in the Yves Saint Laurent dress and matching purse. He knew his way around a room of antiques and could spot the widows within seconds. John watched him with pride, feeling that surge of emotion he imagined father's felt on the first day of school or when their son scored a touchdown in football.

Their lives were perfect and by default, John's was too. He found a condo a short walk from Patrick's new home and he found everything he needed right there in that city. He was so close to a family life that the thought of admitting the truth to Patrick only sought to destroy his dreams. He'd spent so long merely watching that he didn't think encroaching on his son's life would change anything for the better. Instead, he enjoyed the close proximity with which he could live his life beside his family, without them ever knowing the significance of the man who crossed paths with them frequently.

x

The day John found out he was a grandfather disappointment spread through his veins. It wasn't that he didn't want his only child to be a father, to be happy, but it took him away from his dreams. He'd quit the entertainment industry in favour of a few odd jobs here and there. An honest living, he told Angela one day as John walked past their house. That's what they both wanted for their daughter and he accepted the sacrifice willingly.

John would have been happy with that, had his son been happy. But he was far from it. He continually saw the stress in his expression, the struggle he went through daily as he said no to vulnerable people wanting his help. Patrick obviously got a thrill out of his previous career, like John did with his own. Both on the edge of legality and yet both seemingly significant. He took a job at the CBI, some government agency designed to get the bad guys off the streets. He travelled to Sacramento three days a week where he helped to solve crimes. John couldn't have been more disappointed.

x

As the father of a supposedly honourable man, most people would have assumed he was proud. Far from it. Patrick was on the opposite end of the life he'd wanted for him. It's not that John wanted his son to follow in his footsteps necessarily, except that he'd chosen a path far from the one that made him happiest. Despite his reservations, as his father, he had the duty to let him make mistakes, to take himself down a route which resulted in misery.

Until Patrick stood up on television and denounced John's behaviour, addressing him directly; which he had never done before. His son, his golden blond curls still a distinguishing feature as he begged 'Red John' to come forward. Why would he want to do that?

That was his mistake, his downfall. That was the moment John knew that he needed to be there, to help him find the correct direction back to blissful happiness.

John walked across the street as he had done many days that week. Sometimes Patrick saw him and waved, a natural reaction when seeing the familiar neighbour on the street. He had no idea how close his father was, how the lack of distance between them allowed for him to learn all that there was to know about his son. Patrick didn't even know that John was his father, he probably didn't even remember the day that John butchered his mother.

The lock on the side door was faulty, something which John had discovered one afternoon when the Jane family had taken a drive to the beach. He'd walked through the empty hallway, carefully analysing every nook and cranny, every memento and decoration. Patrick was a man of lavish tastes, tastes which he purposefully used to prove his worth. He was as arrogant as the father he didn't know existed, that made John smile.

Angela was at home with Charlotte. The close proximity in which John lived meant that he'd seen Patrick kiss them both goodbye before they'd washed up for dinner. They looked happy, truly happy. Happiness no longer mattered though because what John was about to do could be considered as his worst crime yet. Patrick, his son, had made his latest decisions based on the family he had to support, the child getting ready for bed in her bedroom, climbing into her parent's bed and being read a story. They did it often, sometimes John would watch them, sometimes he would listen and sometimes he would leave them to their privacy.

Tonight, they would meet him for the very first time, as someone other than their neighbour.

And tonight they would breathe their last breath, falling out of mortal life like so many of John's victims. Not because he wanted to kill them, they seemed honest and nice people. Under any other circumstance he'd have loved to meet his granddaughter officially, to toss her in the air and have her call him Grandpa. But they were the root of the problem, they were the reason that Patrick had become the way he had and they had to be slaughtered.

No matter how much it broke John's heart.

Patrick would never know why it had been done; he would always believe it was because of how he spoke about 'Red John' on television. As if he could ever be so petty. He only killed people who deserved it in some way or another. Charlotte didn't ask to be born, yet Angela had allowed her conception. John's role was merely taking care of the issue, eight years too late. But better late than never.

As soon as he'd done it, John would disappear into the night, drive down the coast and spend a week by the beach. He didn't want to be there to watch Patrick fall apart. Regardless of what happened next, that was one thing he couldn't bear to face. He was his only child, why would anyone want to watch their only child in pain? The fact that he'd caused it mattered little. This was how it was supposed to be, this was how his life was always meant to go.

For Patrick was Red John's son and Red John was Patrick's father; though he would probably never know that, John would never forget it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Red Shadow**

**Author**: miss_peg

**Artist**: king_stitch (on livejournal)

**Word Count: **6938

**Rating:** T (violence)

**Summary: **The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.

**Disclaimer:** The Mentalist doesn't belong to me, none of these characters are mine, I just play with them in a sandbox in my mind.

**Notes:** SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 FINALE. I'm not sure what I think of this story, I like the idea but I'm less sure about the tense/person I've written it in. All the same, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to king_stitch for the awesome art which inspired this work (link will soon be available in my profile).

Thanks to Nightrobin05 for reviewing the last chapter. This is the final one, so I hope you enjoy it. :)

**Part Four**

He fooled him, but only for a minute.

Not only did John think that Patrick had fallen off the map, become so broken by his ability to feel pain that he'd collapsed into himself, he also believed that he had killed her, Teresa Lisbon. He obviously felt strong feelings towards her, that was why John asked him to bring her lifeless body to him. The ultimate sacrifice for the cause. Patrick wasn't as much of a man as John thought he was though. He was his son in many ways but not in others.

How he could have possibly thought that Patrick had the ability to murder loved ones went beyond his comprehension. He thought it possible for only a moment before reality hit him hard. Lorelei played her part well, had the circumstances been different, John would have happily allowed her to go on seeing Patrick. Perhaps they could even get married and have a child or two, grandchildren who he would happily welcome into the world. Lorelei would never treat Patrick the way that Angela had, she would accept his profession for what it was. She would pretend that John was her father so that Patrick would accept him into his life.

If he knew the truth, not just that he was Red John, but that he was Patrick's biological father too. Then he would never want to see him again, he would surely do everything in his power to murder John the way John murdered his mother and family.

There was a lack of guilt he felt for what he'd done to his son, for the people he'd taken from his life. Why should he feel something as mortal as guilt? It made Patrick a better person. Without the absence of his mother, he would never have been allowed to be such an entertainer on the carnival circuit. John knew Mairead better than most, she loved her son dearly. When he first met her, John listened to her pain at miscarrying a child, a daughter, at twenty weeks. He heard her pain at the thought of never being a mother, never being able to pass on the love that she held so dearly inside. She loved her husband, of course, but the miscarriage had been such a heart-breaking time for the both of them. There was no way that they could get through it easily. John took her under his wing, fooled her into believing he too had lost a child once. She took his word for it and for that he will always be sorry because deep down he cared for her, maybe even loved her in a way that he'd never loved anyone before. She was reluctant to start a relationship, not least because Alex was at home drinking himself into oblivion over their loss. She didn't want to move on so easily and yet, when it came down to it, John won her around.

Patrick's wife and daughter, they were merely collateral damage on the path to success. A sorry situation that John knew must occur, like sending a dying dog to a vet to save it from pain.

One day Patrick would discover who Red John really was, but not before it was already too late.

Of course, John didn't attend the meeting on the day Patrick supposedly killed Teresa Lisbon or their colleague. The original intention was to go along, to tell him that he were sorry for ruining his happiness once again and that one day he would see the positives, see why John had done the things he had done. But then he'd got the call from the FBI and he knew that he had to continue deceiving Patrick the way he believed he had deceived him.

Luther Wainwright was a pawn; he was never worth the paper his job description was written on, a sorry excuse for a senior agent. He should never have been given responsibility over the case involving the Red John crimes, he was inexperienced and the fact he handed them over so easily to John's FBI mole was laughable to say the least. Darcy was very good at her job; however, someone who he hoped would succeed the young senior agent. What better way to get one over on the CBI than to post his most senior allegiance in the heart of the organisation.

That mattered little though on that day, all that mattered was that Wainwright was taken out of the picture and once again, he fooled his son into believing that he was about to catch a glimpse of the man he thought was Red John. Would he think that his boss had fallen foul to John's wicked hand? Perhaps so. It didn't matter either way because he wouldn't get out alive.

If John had his way, nobody would. Aside from Patrick and his little team, the people he cared about the most.

The only reason he didn't kill them too was because doing so would arouse too much suspicion. The only people he needed on his case were those he trusted, John had killed enough people keeping it in the hands of Teresa Lisbon and Kimball Cho over the years because he knew them well, he understood them and bringing someone new in to take over would only tip the table in their direction. John would always have the upper hand, regardless of what they believed.

It had been weeks since John had seen his son and it saddened him that he couldn't go along that day. Instead he hooked up his cell phone to the body of Luther Wainwright, hopeful that Patrick would believe for as long as possible that the man in the back of the limousine was there, talking to him. When he greeted him, John smiled, his teeth showing in all their glory. He sounded so strong, so assure of himself and that made John feel incredibly proud. He was his little boy, but he had grown up so fast.

Darcy wasn't far away, he never would have requested that Patrick's fingers be cut off otherwise. She would save him, just in time and yet he would never know the part that she played in that day. Instead, they would all go on believing that she had sacrificed the ultimate bust of corrupt law enforcement officials in order to save a subordinate consultant who had been fired months earlier.

When the engine of the limousine started, John hung up the phone and waited patiently for Darcy to call with news of what had happened. The expectation of the day was that Wainwright would be discovered, Lorelei would be caught and the idiot with the muscles would be thrown into a police cell for all of the crimes he'd committed prior to being rescued by an unknown man. John worried, in part, that Lorelei would fall prey to the abilities of Patrick. The direct order was to seduce him, to earn his trust, not to sleep with him, that had been something she did of her own accord. Something which she was punished for later. Who knew what she would do next, she had grown fond of Patrick after all.

She would have to be disposed of and soon.

x

Eventually, Patrick tracked him down and his worst nightmare came true. John never wanted this to happen. He was never meant to meet him, as Red John, he was never meant to beat him in this way. He arrived with a gun, which he hid in a holster underneath his jacket. John could only assume that he'd borrowed it from the CBI, he'd never liked guns. Much like his father. Why else would he always opt for the knife as a weapon of choice? He imagined Patrick would too, if it meant killing his arch nemesis quickly enough.

'Now, now, Patrick, let's not do anything hasty.'

In all of the years John had watched his son, cautiously wondering if every person he'd ever met was the man he'd been looking for. Permanently on edge for fear that he would be in front of Red John without a weapon. He wonder why he didn't keep one on his person at all times, then again, his fear of guns was probably enough to stop that from happening. After he shot Timothy Carter - what a good man he had been - he probably wouldn't have been allowed to own a gun, let alone carry one in public.

'It's you.'

Finally the truth was out; Patrick knew what John had always known. His eyes sparkled in recognition. How much did he know of the past that they'd shared?

'It is me, Patrick, you've finally found me.'

He laughed, a soft chuckle bellowing out of his mouth. He looked both petrified and excited, knowing that he would finally get the vengeance he so desperately deserved. John didn't doubt it for a second because now that he knew he was Red John, his time was numbered.

'You lived near my family's home, in Malibu.'

He mumbled and it frustrated him because he'd never liked people talking about something of nothing. He firmly believed that if someone couldn't say anything nice, they shouldn't say it at all. If he didn't have anything of importance to say, he kept his mouth shut.

Patrick looked confused. 'I've seen you somewhere else.'

'I've been in lots of places, my boy.'

Patrick lifted his head and stared into his eyes, a sense of recognition hitting him hard though he didn't seem to have grasped why. John laughed because there was little better than the perfect revenge and he knew that had Mairead been there to see it, she would have been mortified. He had succeeded in all that he'd wanted to do with his life. He had a family, a son who he had watched grow. He may not have been in his life in the conventional way and for that he was sorry, but he was only protecting him from the life that he didn't want him to have to lead.

He'd hoped years ago, when he had met Lorelei, that Patrick would join the Red John Cult. It had always been the biggest intention, for him to be by his father's side, the ultimate psychopaths that history had ever known. He had failed to bow to John's demands, to meet his requests. He realised his mistakes early on, tried to rectify them, but there was little he could do about his conscience. Despite being a miscreant in his own right, Alex Jane had done right by the boy. Right for the world, but not right for his real father. He was taught the right and wrong that the world around him believed in. A right and wrong which John cared little for. There were actions and inactions, mistakes and successes. How people defined them was merely based on the values they had been taught. If he could have taught Patrick the ways of his world, then maybe he would have accepted the offer.

It didn't matter much anymore. John was growing old, frail and he knew his days were numbered. One day soon, even if it was ten years from now, he would be recycled in the grand scheme of life. He weren't afraid of death, on the contrary, he was excited for the next step. Whether he died naturally in a decade or right then at the hands of Patrick Jane, he no longer cared. He'd lived enough life for it not to matter anymore.

'You were there, when my mom died.'

His eyebrows furrowed and the edges of his eyes creased. He looked pained, shattered and broken by a realisation that he'd never seemed to consider before.

'When I killed her, yes,' John grinned, waiting patiently for Patrick to lift the gun. He couldn't fire it just yet, he wasn't ready, he had to know the truth. John wouldn't die with him having never known who he was and Patrick was too smart to murder him without having answers to his questions.

He did as expected, his right hand raising the gun up before he grasped it also with his left. His fingers squeezed slowly and he winced, fearful of the backlash. Then he stopped, his fingers turning white from his grip on the weapon.

'Why?'

'Why not?' said John.

He was unimpressed with the answer, so was John, though he didn't show it. It was merely an attempt to make him squirm, to keep him hanging on that little bit longer.

'Because she kept you from me.'

'What?' Patrick stared, his eyes curious and afraid.

'For a perceptive man, you sure are stupid,' said John, smirking.

'I don't understand.'

'I loved your mother dearly, Patrick, almost as much as I loved you, son.'

The moment had come; he could see it in Patrick's eyes. Anger and frustration laced his pupils, falling down the sides of his cheeks with tears. John had never really seen him cry before and he knew he never would again. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him into his arms, hold him like a father should always hold his son when he cries.

Of course, he would never be afforded such a pleasure.

Patrick squeezed his fingers against the gun, it exploded, firing a bullet at lightning speed until it pierced John's skin. It knocked him back briefly, then another couple of bullets flew through the air, hitting him in the same location. He wasn't a bad shot, for someone who hated guns. Then John stumbled backwards, his knees losing their strength, his body falling to the ground and he succumbed to the final moments of his life.

'Patrick,' John shouted, and he did something that he'd never expected him to ever do. He took the hand of his father, holding it tightly, in the way that a child would when bearing witness to their parent on their death bed. It didn't matter that he'd been the one to push him in that direction, he still held his fingers, clammy from the grasp of the gun. 'I'm so sorry.'

And with a sense of remorse for ruining any chance of ever being part of his son's life, John gave up, allowing his heart to slow and his breath to stop. He took the coward's way out, he knew that now. Death was not the answer to everything he thought it was, if anything, it made life that little bit harder in the long run.


End file.
